


My Heroes All Became Psychotics

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [16]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Arthur-centric, Backstory, Gen, Pre-Inception, Pre-Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-13 04:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10506297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: Arthur’s backstory. Before he became the Point Man of legend, he was the CIA’s greatest investment.“The sight of blood doesn’t alarm him anymore. After months—or years, depending on how you count it—of specialized training, Arthur no longer flinches at seeing blood, guts, and other internal pieces becoming—suddenly, violently—external.”





	1. Needing Something Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi.
> 
> I know everyone’s anxious to get to New York. But first! First, we’re actually going to take a detour that’s about six years and two thousand miles in the wrong direction. Surprise! ::unsure but game smile::
> 
> Set after _Gasoline Rain_ and before _Fire and Brimstone_.

 

 

_Classified Location_

_Bumfuck, America_

 

 

Arthur closes his eyes.

 _Mistake. Oh, god, that’s a mistake._ Closing his eyes just makes it worse.

The sight of blood doesn’t alarm him anymore. After months—or years, depending on how you count it—of “specialized” training, Arthur no longer flinches at seeing blood, guts, and other internal pieces becoming—suddenly, violently—external.

But the smell… heavy on the air and thick on his tongue, the smell still gets him every time.

He opens his eyes and lets the view distract him from the nauseous curdling of his stomach.

Two bare feet, lean and normally innocuous, currently slick with sweat and blood. Pale skin is stretched tight over tendons and bones, which made it easier to drive four-inch spikes—box nails, Arthur’s helpful mind supplies—with precise aim into the small space between delicate metatarsals. The nails stick up like unnatural growths, metals spines erupting out of torn flesh. The grotesquerie should have added a surreal taint to the scene, but it all feels so real.

One by one, each nail had been hammered slowly, almost carefully, through skin and muscle. The sound had been impossible to overlook, even over the screams.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Arthur jerks—an instinctive reaction to all the shock and pent-up adrenaline—and gags around the resultant flare of agony.

 _Don’t move, don’t move, dontmovedontmovedontfuckingmove_.

He sags forward in his bindings, head curled over his knees, and stares at where his feet are literally nailed to the floor.

If he breathes slowly enough, if he concentrates, he’s able to suppress the trembling in his legs. It doesn’t hurt as much if he keeps. Perfectly. Still.

He’s so tired of hurting. Exhausted from the unending pain. Except Arthur’s trainers believe in hands-on learning, and pain is a very intimate matter. If you want to hurt someone, you need to understand his pain from the inside out.

 _Pain is in the mind_ , they say. _Control the mind, you can control the pain_.

Well, isn’t that just jim-fucking-dandy. None of them are tied naked to a chair with their feet staked to the goddamned floor.

He breathes.

Slow and steady. Still.

He can do this.

 

* * *

 

Cobb has a theory about dreamshare, and the powers that be have enough faith in Cobb to secure him a dedicated budget line and his own, fresh-faced recruit to experiment on.

To be fair, Arthur doesn’t resent being Cobb’s pet project. Not really. He has enough self-awareness to understand that his own actions and decisions brought him to this point. The military offered him a guaranteed spot in a cutting-edge, classified program—provided that he survives basic training. Arthur said yes. The CIA pointed at him and said he was exactly what they needed, a quick-learner that could endure extended dreamtime without losing stability. Arthur was flattered. Cobb pitched ideas of endless potential and new frontiers in cognitive science. Arthur was seduced.

They all promised to make him a legend among men. Arthur was just insecure enough in his self-worth to want what they were selling.

And so it comes to be that Arthur deals in pain for a living. Withstanding it. Dishing it out. Either way, he hurts. And he dies.

Again and again, he dies.

 

* * *

 

The target bobs in and out of his crosshairs, taunting him with the thought that he might miss the shot. But Arthur knows he won’t miss.

_“Shoot him.”_

He’s been in position for almost an hour, and the voice on his com was wrung dry of patience long ago.

“He’s just a kid.”

_“No, he’s not. He’s a figment of imagination. He isn’t real.”_

“Then why does it matter if I shoot or not?”

_“You know why. Shoot him. He’s not important. He isn’t real. So just kill him and we can move on.”_

Arthur never misses his shot.

 

* * *

 

Cobb’s theory is devastatingly simple. If one could go deep enough into the subconscious, away from the barriers of doubt or preconceptions, it would be possible to hack the mind like an unprotected hard drive—imbedding knowledge and training closer to the epicenters of instinct and reflex. No more learning blocks or translation errors, no more washing out of basic because the training just didn’t _take_.

The Powers were excited, especially when Cobb’s initial research team discovered they could cheat time by folding dreamspace upon itself. A dream within a dream. Master new languages in months instead of years. Learn to fly a helicopter, hack security systems, and perfect a reverse hook kick in less time than it takes most people to pick up the tango.

So they test skills through dreamshare. Run Arthur through the mental paces over and over again, until knowledge is fixed into behavior. Until procedure becomes muscle memory.

It works almost exactly has Cobb had hoped. In dreams, Arthur is a veritable superhero of skills and abilities, but the training translates only partway in the waking world. Full success hovers just shy of actualization. He’s good, but he could be more.

It’s second nature for Arthur to solve problems, and this is a problem that only he can address. The answer, after all, lies literally within his own head. It takes a few months, but eventually he realizes that the best way to maximize effects is by subsuming his conscious thought as much as possible without losing awareness or agency.

The improvements are measurable.

Cobb is delighted.

There’s a learning curve, of course. The first time his body fights through a hand-to-hand session without his conscious direction, he stays awake all night, afraid to sleep. Afraid of what he’ll be when—if—he wakes up.

Eventually, though, he gets over it. At least, when he steps outside of himself like that, the endless stretch of time doesn’t seem so bad.

 

* * *

 

The pain comes from inside, ripping through his bones and blasting out to his skin, into every extremity, every hair follicle. And the stench is a thousand times worse.

Opening his eyes isn’t an option this time. His muscles won’t respond to his brain’s commands, too busy burning and spasming to the dance of the electrical current.

He remembers to breathe—barely. Maintains consciousness by pure obstinacy and a refusal to be less than the best, even in this.

“Hit him again.”

The next shock is brief but more intense, like a wave of hellfire scorching through his cells. When he regains awareness, he can smell his own flesh cooking, can feel the arrhythmic drumming of his heart. Knows he won’t survive another hit.

The knowledge makes it easier to pull away, to disconnect his mind from the physical sensations that imprison him within his own body. If he’s dying anyway, the pain is inconsequential. Only the objective matters.

And fuck if he’s going to die on this filthy floor.

It takes an eternity to drag his shaking arms underneath him, to push up onto hands and knees, but Arthur has nothing but time these days. And eventually he’s successful in sitting back on his haunches, more or less upright.

He can do this.

“Good. Finally. Okay, one more run through from the beginning, then we’ll do it topside.”

 

* * *

 

The night Corporal Bryce Emerson flips two high-powered governments the finger, Arthur finds himself alone in the corporal’s darkened room. He doesn’t remember choosing to come here, but he isn’t surprised.

He feels hollow. Shaken. He wants to pretend it’s just the after effects of today’s sessions.

He’s never been very good at lying to himself.

The room is a bit of a mess, by military standards. Clothes and ratty paperbacks left lying around pay tribute to the former owner’s devil-may-care attitude. No sign of packing or preparations to be gone. The corporal obviously had to abandon it all when he left. Most of it is impersonal, anyway. Uniform shirts, basic toiletries, cheap playing cards, and half-empty water bottles.

Nothing with a soul.

Nothing that conveys the overwhelming personality of the man.

He feels silly, mooning like an adolescent in the room of someone that hated him on the best of days. There’s nothing to gain from being there. But Arthur is embarrassingly desperate for a piece of history or habit, some new bit of information about the enigmatic character that dominates his free thoughts.

He’s a fool on a fool’s errand, frustrated by the complete lack identity in the room. There are no traces of Eames.

Arthur pokes restlessly at the spare change and poker chips tossed on the nightstand. Sends a plastic die rolling. Three. Arthur picks it up and gives it an absent toss. Three. On a whim, he rolls again. Three. Amused now, he examines the die more closely and realizes the hidden trick.

A loaded die. _Of course_ , he thinks. And smiles.

He tucks the die in his pocket like a dirty secret, self-conscious and hyperaware of the minuscule weight of it as he ghosts back to his own room. Calling himself an idiot in six languages, he cuts a hole in his box spring and hides the die inside, where his handlers are less likely to find it.

That night he lays awake again, thinking about chance and stolen opportunities.

 


	2. All My Strings Are Out of Tune

Time flows on, merciless in its advancement. Arthur stops tracking what day or even month it is. He knows what his current assignment is, and all measurements of time are irrelevant until the assignment is completed.

Currently, it’s another “lesson” on interrogation techniques. Another day in paradise. Only this time, Arthur is the one making cuts and drawing blood, learning to control others through the perfect application of pain.

His handlers actually call it a graduation, of sorts. They’re pleased with his development.

The woman has no identity that he’s aware of, just another contrived stand-in for any number of targets he’s practiced on. She looks a little familiar—short, dark hair and a wide mouth—and he wonders idly if the Mad Scientists are recycling projections. They always come with flimsy backstories and the barest bones of motivation, just enough substance to provide context for the exercise but hardly an in-depth storyline. Not that it matters. The intel the projections spit up is never the true goal.

 _And the tears are convincing enough_ , he thinks, running his blade down the side of the projection’s face.

The interrogation room is small, dominated by a large mirror so the woman can watch what he does to her. People break so much sooner when they witness their own destruction. Arthur knows that first hand.

He has an easier time of things, on this side of the knife, though not for the obvious reasons. As long as he’s the one working, Arthur has something to focus on, an objective to complete. The screaming, the crying and bleeding, are just mild distractions. Arthur is good at managing distractions.

Sometimes, too good.

Arthur has always had the tendency to fixate on tasks to the exclusion of all other concerns. Completing a job, doing it well—he’s driven to be the best at everything he takes his hand to. It’s both an asset and a personal failing, and it’s one of the characteristics that brought him to the CIA’s attention. And it’s part of the shackle that holds him to this world he’s trapped in.

It’s too late to leave, to undo what he’s become, but Arthur struggles to protect a remnant of who he was _before_. He keeps it deep within himself, where it can’t be touched or corrupted, and surrounds it with the strongest defenses he can find within his degraded soul.

Anger, strangely, becomes his best tool. Anger keeps him motivated yet, somehow, more clearheaded than elsewise. With that burn simmering under his skin, pushing for dominance of his thoughts and feelings, he’s able to stay “surfaced” in reality. He’s able to remain _him_.

Maybe that’s why he’s drawn to Eames.

Arthur ruminates on that, exploring the implications of that idea rather than focus too much on the sticky warmth of blood between his fingers.

Eames certainly had a way of pricking his temper without even trying—of course, unrequited lust might have something to do with that—to say nothing of the outright fury Eames could provoke when really wanting to get under his skin. Arthur is almost ashamed of how unprofessional, how unrestrained he had been in his interactions with the corporal. But that had been a pure anger—clean, if aggravating.

Nothing like the futile rage he clings to these days.

It’s so much harder to hold onto himself since Eames left.

Arthur has bad moments. Memory gaps. Impulse control problems. The black holes in his awareness occur more frequently, now, and they’re getting harder to conceal.

He’s been taken off of joint training sessions. The new American recruits don’t respond well to him, according to Cobb, and Eames’s old cohort was shipped home a month ago. Until the Mad Scientists can promise no repeats of what happened with Lieutenant Wisher, the SRR is keeping its soldiers—and its funding—well out of extraction experimentation.

Arthur is running out of people to talk to that aren’t trainers or lab techs.

Dave Fuller, his lead babysitter from the agency, seems to be fond of him. Which is weird—most people find Arthur off-putting, he knows. Dave is always trying to talk to him, to bond or whatever, but his paternal demeanor just makes Arthur feel more uncomfortable and isolated.

He stopped calling his parents after the latest call becomes too awkward. It seems like a lifetime since he’s been home, and he can’t talk to them anymore. Doesn’t know _how_ to talk to them anymore.

Doesn’t know how to say goodbye.

He feels so numb.

These days, he lives more of his life in dreams than in reality. Four hours a day, two levels down… the dreams have become more his natural habitat than the waking world. The times he spends topside—picking at meals and staring at walls—feel like traffic stops.

He’s beginning to suspect he won’t last much longer.

He starts a fresh cut.

 

* * *

 

Arthur takes a hit to the face and everything goes black. A few seconds at most, not long enough to qualify as losing consciousness. But by the time his senses come back online he’s vaguely aware that something inside his mind has been… knocked loose.

The world is quiet, calm, despite the kicks and punches that continue to fly towards him. Obstacles, merely. Objectives to be dealt with.

He responds to the attacks without deliberation. Dodges blows without fear, blocks strikes without forethought.

He retaliates without restraint.

He moves in quickly, a swift twist and a jerk. A startled yell from the side. His opponent falls away—a faceless body, they’re all the same—and Arthur instinctively turns to where the next assault will come from. But there’s nothing. Just loud voices building, shouting and swearing, bouncing all around him in a meaningless cacophony.

He waits, ready, for the enemy to engage.

“Hold your fire! God _damn_ it. Hold your motherfucking fire.”

More people scramble into the training room, weapons drawn. They surround him, confident that they can contain him just by outnumbering him, believe they can prevent him from reaching any of the exits. But they overlook a crucial piece of the situation. There’s one exit they forget about, which they should never forget about when forcing his back to a wall.

He’s used to dying, after all.

He shifts his balance, preparing to launch his attack, when one voice cuts through the chaos.

“Arthur! Arthur listen to me. Stand down, now. _Arthur_.”

That voice. The compulsion to obey overrides his instinct to strike out. He focuses, pushes his mind to work, and slowly the generic faces come together as people he recognizes. The afternoon-shift MPs, who always watch him when his back is turned. His krav maga instructor, crouched next to a lifeless form in a white gi. Dave in the back by the door. And there. That one. Cobb.

Dominic Cobb, who has free rein to Arthur’s brain and open opportunity to condition all _kinds_ of interesting behaviors, it would seem.

The thought fades as quickly as Arthur thinks it.

“Yes, Arthur, look at me,” Cobb moves past the MPs, closer to Arthur, with hands raised and eyes wide. He’s cautious, yes, and concerned. But Cobb is remarkably sure of his own safety in contrast to the horde of military personnel that are losing their collective shit. “Stand down, Arthur, that’s an order.”

Choice taunts him from just out of reach. The very last thing Arthur wants just then is to comply. He wants to fight. He wants to throw himself at every armed man in the room and hit, and hit, and hit, until time finally reaches its end.

“ _Arthur, stand down_.”

The urge to resist makes his hands twitch. Sends his entire body in revolt against itself. Too late, he reaches for that beautiful anger, that molten core that hides deep within. Trusted solace. He tries to bring it out, needs the hot wash of rage to strip away this alien compulsion infecting him. But it’s been too long since he’s ruled his own mind.

Shoulders drop. Knees sag towards the floor.

The MPs are on him in seconds.

 


	3. No One’s Around to Break My Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the updated tags.

 

Arthur first regains consciousness while on the move. The walls shift around him, disorienting, even though his feet aren’t touching the ground. It takes him a moment to understand that he’s being carried, his body slung between at least three people with bruising grips.

He doesn’t mean to. He really doesn’t. But it’s instinct to coil up, kick out, to aim for the vulnerable spots. He fights back with no clearer goal than forcing them to let him go. There are too many hands on him. He doesn’t like it when strangers touch him.

“Shit! Grab him!”

“Watch out for his—”

“Can’t we just sedate the fucker?”

The response is lost amid the sounds of crashing metal and grunts of pain. Arthur does his best, but he’s already taken too many blows to the head, his body isn’t working the way it should, and a hard clip to his jaw sends everything into a darkening whirlpool.

He holds on as long as he can, but it’s a day for failures.

 

 

 

The next time he comes around, he’s alone in a private infirmary room. He recognizes the antiseptic odor and glaring ceiling lights from his times spent being patched up after interrogation training.

The room doesn’t evoke happy memories, to put it shortly.

He tries to throw himself off the bed, only to discover that they’ve strapped him down.

Arthur loses it, plain and simple. Even knowing that he’s letting panic get the better of him, there’s no stopping the visceral reaction. Desperate, panting breaths barely fuel the furtive keening that seeps out from behind clenched teeth. He thrashes against the restraints, manic and senseless like an animal caught in a trap, pulling at the straps until his joints ache and the skin of his wrists and ankles burn.

Memories of being bound, tortured and tormented, flash across his mind. Some of them dreams, but not all, and his ability to differentiate between the two has been eroding for… fuck, how long it’s been, he couldn’t say. It’s impossible to know.

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been lying here, helpless. He remembers losing consciousness. Once? Twice?

God, is he even awake _now?_ Maybe this is a dream. It must be a dream. How many levels down is he? Arthur tries to focus, to remember the point where everything started to feel off, but his thoughts just loop from one painful memory to the next. And does it even matter anymore? If he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not, if he’s lost in his own mind, does it matter if he never wakes up again?

Arthur’s vision starts to go gray around the edges. A clinical part of his brain points to the impending loss of consciousness. And, fuck. God only knows what he’ll wake up to next if he passes out now. The pressure in his chest builds. And builds and builds.

_…this what you call control, darling?_

Arthur sobs quietly, the strangled knot in his throat wobbling into twisted laughter. It figures that his broken mind would not only conjure the sound of Eames’s voice but also mock himself with it. Even in his own insanity, Arthur just can’t win with that man.

He has no difficulty imagining the smug, taunting look that would be on Eames’s face were he here to witness Arthur’s disgrace. Knows the exact angle that twists Eames’s ridiculous mouth when he judges Arthur and finds him lacking. But the sardonic, British voice in his head is right. He needs to get control of himself.

Arthur forces himself to breathe, to just calm the fuck down. He needs to deal with this—now, while he’s alone. There will probably only be this one chance. If he messes up, they’ll be watching him too closely. He’ll be stuck in this hell.

He can’t let that happen.

Arthur spends a few precious minutes concentrating on his breathing. It goes against his flight-or-fight instincts to just lie there, inactive during a hostile situation, but he’s regained enough sense to realize he won’t get far with hysteria driving his actions.

_Impress me._

He runs through it like a checklist. First, stop hyperventilating. Check. Next, get off the goddamned bed. And then he can get the fuck out of there. Simple.

It takes him longer than it should to deal with the restraints because his hands won’t stop shaking. Eventually, though, he’s able to work loose one of the Velcro cuffs and wriggle his hand free. Progress speeds up from there.

Getting out of the bed, the first thing he does is test the door. Locked, as he suspected. And he can see soldiers standing guard on either side of the room. Which is just fine. He doesn’t plan on escaping that way.

He silently prowls the entirety of the room, riffling through drawers and cupboards, but the place has been scrubbed of anything that would be immediately useful.

_C’mon, pet, you can do better._

Fuck you, Eames.

_In your dreams._

There’s no other choice. He’s going to have to break the mirror above the sink, which is less than ideal. He’ll need to move fast because once the guards pick up on the noise, they’ll be moving in. He’ll have seconds at most.

Seconds to kill himself.

Now.

Before they can stop him.

Because maybe this is all just one of the training sessions, and he’ll wake up from the dream. And if it’s not a dream… well. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a win-win situation. Insanity is too great a risk. Eames was right. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t have to stay. Even if death is the only way to leave.

The trashcan is small and sturdy enough to serve his purpose. Arthur gives himself a mental countdown, then slams the bin into the mirror with as much force as he can. The first hit shatters the glass but doesn’t break loose any large enough pieces.

And, sure enough, there’s an almost instant response from out in the hall. Voices rise. Clock’s ticking.

He hits the mirror again, this time popping out a long shard about the width of two fingers. Perfect. He grabs the shard, ignoring the slice of pain across his palm. Wasting no time, he’s already started cutting into his own neck when the door flies open, but he knows the wound is too shallow. Superficial injury. He needs to cut deeper.

Voices shouting in his ear. Hands all over him—and Christ, he hates being touched without permission—pulling his arms down, bearing him to the ground. The back of his head hits the linoleum, hard enough to stun.

There’s a shuffle in the pile of bodies on top of him, and then Cobb’s face fills his view. Shouting words that Arthur doesn’t catch. He looks stressed, and a distant part of Arthur is pleased that Cobb’s apparently having a difficult day.

Someone’s hands—not Cobb—clamp down on Arthur’s wrist, forcing his hold on the shard to go slack. He tries to correct the grip, tries to turn the makeshift weapon on his captors, but his fingers have become slick with blood.

Cobb curses, pushing down on Arthur’s chest hard enough to make breathing difficult. “Stop it, Arthur. Just _stop_.”

He feels a knee-jerk instinct to relax. A tug on his hazy memory. A rising wave of despair. “Let me go,” he begs. “Just let me go.”

Arthur struggles with his last reserve of energy but only ends up losing his weapon and the small bit of advantage he held. Two soldiers kneel on his shoulders while Cobb all but sits on his legs. He’s immobilized, defeated.

He feels hope slipping out of his grasp with devastating finality. There won’t be another opportunity. Cobb will make sure of that. He’ll never be free.

For the first time in his unnatural life, Arthur surrenders.

He feels himself go lax, all fight in him gone, but the men holding him down don’t let up. There’s a bustle off to the side. A doctor Arthur sort of recognizes comes close, a loaded syringe held up, but Cobb holds him off. “No, don’t!” he barks. “Sedation only makes him worse.”

The doctor steps closer. “We have to. Restraints are practically useless on this guy, you people made sure of that. I can’t leave him to be a danger to everyone. Himself included, apparently.”

“Look, just…” Cobb sighs, looking weary. “I’ll handle it.”

“Agent Cobb—”

Cobb narrows his eyes and hardens his tone. “I’ll handle it. Sedating him isn’t an option.”

The doctor glowers back but ultimately capitulates. “Fine. Just make sure you tell the colonel that.”

“Already done.”

The doctor backs off, but he doesn’t go very far. At Cobb’s direction, the soldiers hoist Arthur off the floor and sit him back down on the bed. He doesn’t resist, not even when Cobb dismisses the soldiers from the room.

Cobb stares down at Arthur, hands on his hips, and shakes his head. There’s blood smeared on his chin, in his hair. In another life, Arthur might have apologized for that.

Cobb watches, silent and pensive, while the doctor inspects the cuts on Arthur’s neck and hand.  “No serious damage,” the doctor reports, preparing a couple of sutures for the deepest part of the wound on Arthur’s palm. Neither Cobb nor Arthur say anything, and the doctor ducks his chin down for the duration of the procedure.

Once the doctor is done, Cobb sends him on his way. He grumbles and makes a point of leaving the door open. Arthur couldn’t say if it’s him or Cobb that the man trusts less. Either way, he sympathizes.

Cobb gives off another heavy sigh and crouches a little to put his face directly in Arthur’s sightline. “Arthur, listen to me. You can’t do that again. Do you understand?”

The only response he gets is a flat stare.

“I’m serious. Hurting yourself is only going to make the situation worse for yourself. You don’t want that,” Cobb says with the utmost gravity. As if he knows a damn thing about what Arthur wants.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks.

Cobb jerks upright, brows raising. “What?”

“Am I dreaming?” he asks again in the same tired voice.

Cobb squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, running a hand across his face. “Christ, Arthur.”

And Arthur gets it. Because in all this time, all these years of strain and horror, this is the first time Arthur has ever asked that. It’s the first time he’s needed to. And even as he asks it, he knows he won’t believe the answer, anyway. “I just want out. I don’t care how. I want out of the dream.”

“Arthur…” Cobb turns away to pace a tight path beside the bed.

Arthur watches, listless, uncaring. Back and forth. Back and forth. Almost hypnotic, if he blocks out the squeak of shoes on cheap flooring. Let everything else fall away. Back and for—

“Arthur.”

He snaps back to attention and winces. Were the lights this bright before?

Cobb is back to standing in front of him, his air of upbeat determination already exhausting to Arthur even before Cobb talks. “Arthur, listen to me. You’re not dreaming. This is real. Not that me saying that helps any,” Cobb gives him a wry smile that slides into a grimace when he meets Arthur’s gaze.

“I want out. I don’t care what happens, you know I don’t. I want out.”

“We can handle this, Arthur. There’s a way… there’s a way to know if you’re in someone’s dream. It’s only experimental right now, but it works. I swear it does.” And the gleam in Cobb’s eye—so much passion, such fanatic conviction. There was a time when Arthur would have been helpless against that fervor. There was a time when Arthur _had_ been swept up in the brilliance of Cobb’s vision and had wanted it for himself.

He shakes his head. “No.” The word tumbles out, weighed down by all the emotions he can’t give proper voice to. “No. That’s not enough. No more dreams. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this.”

“Arthur…” Cobb starts to argue but fades off, staring. It takes Arthur a while to feel the hot trails on his face, but it’s the pity in Cobb’s gaze that makes him realize he’s crying.

He closes his eyes, and still the tears stream free. He waits for the relief that’s supposed to come—isn’t crying supposed to make people feel better? Instead, he feels that pressure in his chest, still building and building until it might climb up his throat and choke him.

 _Then_ would he finally die?

An awkward hand settles onto his shoulder. To Arthur, it has the weight of lead, but he still leans into it, lets himself curl into the rigid half-embrace Cobb offers. He’s just so tired. “Let me go,” he begs once more. “Let me go.”

And finally, “Okay.” Cobb’s voice stalls on the word. He coughs, the arm held around Arthur tightening. “Okay,” he says again with more strength. “I’ll get you out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I keep finding notes in my original outline that say "backstory _short_ fic". As if.


	4. I Cast No Shadow

The psychiatric team has a field day with him, running test after test to determine if Arthur’s irretrievably broken or not. In the end, they decide post-traumatic stress reads better than bat-shit crazy in their reports and tell him to get more rest.

Medication is ruled out almost immediately. Arthur has spent so much time in dreamshare, more than any other person on record, that the built-up somnacin in his system has been a frequent topic of discussion among the doctors on the team—not that anyone shares this little fact with Arthur until _after_ his breakdown. They opt for the “wait and see” approach, meaning they quit him cold turkey from dreaming and document his withdrawal with invasive diligence.

If Arthur thought his every move and bodily function were heavily scrutinized _before_ …

The headaches he can handle. He’s used to those. And he didn’t have much of an appetite to lose, anyway. It’s easier to pick at meals than risk chucking up everything he tries to eat.

It’s the chills that bothers him most. The doctors keep insisting he has a fever, but Arthur just feels a bone-deep shiver that won’t go away no matter how many hot showers he takes or how many blankets he buries himself under. He’s told that the detox process will just have to run its course, and he locks his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering and requisitions a few sweaters to layer up with.

On the plus side, they let him leave the infirmary, keeping him on indefinite lockdown in his quarters, instead. Arthur doesn’t mind. He could break out any time—he knows it, they know it—but he isn’t interested in going anywhere. Where would he go?

His handlers continue to monitor his behavior closely in case he gets suicidal again, but the impulse to kill himself has… relaxed. It’s still there, certainly. Arthur can feel it brushing the back of his thoughts, like the faintest of whispers. But the urgency has faded. Arthur is half-convinced the CIA will put him down like a rabid dog, anyway, which helps him find patience with his fate.

Against expectation, the forced inactivity suits him just fine in his current mood. There’s more than enough agitation going on in his head, and the house arrest is a vast improvement on the extended dream sessions that usually fill his schedule. Instead, Arthur sits quietly in his room for days, passing the time by learning how to fold origami. It soothes him, the deliberate movements, each fold precise and meticulous despite the tremor in his hands.

Dave brings him colorful paper and a new book of patterns every day. The gifts are an apology, he knows. Arthur appreciates the thought even if he can’t bring himself to care about what Dave might be feeling sorry for.

On one of his visits, Dave assures Arthur that he won’t face any criminal charges for killing the karate instructor. He says this like it’s something to be happy about.

Arthur isn’t sure if he believes in penance, if saying _I’m sorry_ would be enough to take the stains off of his soul. He knows serving prison time wouldn’t bring back the dead, but it might have brought more balance to the universe. In the end, though, Arthur doesn’t have the heart or energy to argue with Dave. There are other ways to achieve balance.

After almost a week of confinement, Cobb shows up. It’s the first time that Arthur’s seen him since The Incident. The resentment catches him by surprise.

To his credit, Cobb skips the pleasantries and goes straight to business. “Well, the good news is, we’re getting you out.”

Arthur gives the announcement all the incredulity it deserves. “The United States government just spent millions of dollars on molding me into their perfect little assassin,” he says in a flat voice. “There is no _out_.”

“Emerson got out,” Cobb points out.

Arthur almost laughs, but he’s afraid it wouldn’t come out sounding right. “Eames got out because I hacked base security and helped him steal the colonel’s car.”

Cobb fails at hiding his surprise, and with good reason. Arthur’s never given anyone reason to think he gave Eames more than a passing thought.  But Cobb recovers quickly and tries to spin some humor into his voice. “Well, I’m not you, that’s for sure. But I do have some tricks of my own. I promise you, Arthur, I’ll get you through this.”

Arthur just shakes his head. Cobb believes it’s true, he can tell. Then again, Cobb exists in a bubble of influence and self-indulgence. He probably believes he can make anything true just by wanting it enough. “Don’t waste your time, Dom. Just cancel me out. It’s going to happen anyway.”

“Arthur…”

He’s suddenly tired of this conversation and Cobb’s wounded, expectant expression. They’re arguing semantics instead of confronting the real issue at hand. “Even if you do get me out, I’m practically certifiable. Can’t tell reality from lies. Can’t control my actions. And you can’t let me loose on the general populace, risking the damage I’ll inevitably do.”

But Cobb just smiles like a man with a secret. “I’ve got a plan for that, actually.”

“Yeah? What?” And Arthur curses himself for the genuine spark of interest that flares to life, especially when he sees Cobb take note.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

 

* * *

 

Mallorie Cobb is nothing like Arthur expects. Cobb never talks about his wife or children in detail, but he always gives the impression that Mal is some gregarious hoyden with a perpetual smirk on her lips and the force of a hundred suns powering her infectious energy.

In truth, Mal is… lovely.

She introduces herself quietly. No sudden movements to startle the slightly unhinged, government-trained killer, but neither does she hesitate to smile and offer her hand in greeting.

They talk about simple things that first hour—where she grew up, their mutual preference for coffee over tea, their conflicting views on hot weather. Nothing especially energetic about any of it. In fact, Arthur finds himself calmed by Mal’s easy company.

Not to say that Mal isn’t sharp in her own way. The woman is so clever, and it’s clear that her affinity for dreamshare rivals even Cobb’s. When she explains her idea for totems—small tokens with unique familiarity to the owner, so no one could ever fabricate them in a dream—Arthur is impressed by the tidiness of the concept. It’s so simple that it’s impossibly brilliant.

“Here, this is my totem,” she holds out her hand, a small spinning-top resting in her palm, but closes her fist when Arthur reaches out. “ _Non_. I can’t let you touch it; that’s how it works.”

“What do you mean?”

Mal reveals the little toy again, spinning it idly in her fingertips. “I’ve had this since I was a girl. I don’t even remember where I got it from, or why I kept it all these years. But it’s become almost like a piece of me. You see, Arthur, only I know the exact feel of this. The weight of it, the way it moves when it spins. No one else could ever recreate it accurately enough to fool me. With this, I’ll always know if I’m in someone else’s dream.”

(He asks how the totem will let him know when he’s trapped in his _own_ dream. Mal smiles—so sweet, so sad—and tells him it’s unlikely he’ll ever again dream on his own. By now, his brain chemistry is too dependent on the compound. The knowledge hurts in a way he doesn’t truly understand.)

Arthur chooses his totem before Mal has even finished explaining the idea. The loaded die, tucked safely away in its hiding spot all these months, now a constant companion in his pocket. At night he brings it out and memorizes the feel of the die in his hand, the way it lists to the side when he tilts his palm just so. When he sleeps—more accurately, when he lays in bed all night staring at shadows—the die sits under his pillow. He’s almost sure he can feel the shape of it under his head, like a pea under a stack of mattresses.

Mal doesn’t ask him about his totem. He expects her to, and he mentally rehearses multiple responses, from casual brush-offs to righteous diatribes. But she never asks. It’s the first taste of personal freedom he’s had in years.

Mal visits him every day. Sometimes they talk about politics and French food—in French, of course, because Mal says his accent is terrible. Sometimes they just make paper flowers together in silence.

It’s… nice. Soothing. But none of it feels real. _He_ doesn’t feel real. Sometimes he’s convinced Mal is just a hallucination, but he still plays along with the ruse.

There are worse lies to be trapped in.

 


	5. Toss the Coin to Fate

“Cobb said the _good_ news.”

Dave hums in question. He doesn’t take his eyes off the supposed-to-be paper lotus he’s mangling.

Arthur reaches over to fix one of the flower’s creases, but his shaking hands add extra bends where there shouldn’t be any. “Last week. Cobb said the good news is that you’re getting me out. So, what’s the bad news?”

“Right,” Dave tosses the clump of folded paper across the table with a sigh and leans back in his chair. He’s clearly been anticipating this conversation. “Bad news is… we’re letting you _out_ , but we’re not letting you _go_.”

Arthur doesn’t look up, nor does he pause in his actions. He’s almost got the dragon pattern memorized, even though the head never looks right. He makes a small adjustment to the left wing. “Explain.”

“Cobb has some decent clout with the higher ups, but we still had to negotiate. The CIA will grant you honorable discharge and freedom of its employ with one proviso. You continue the work, freelance, and you make yourself available to the agency as a private contractor.”

Arthur stills, eyes cutting up to meet Dave’s gaze head-on. “You’re shitting me.”

Dave winces. “It’s the only way to keep you alive and out of a prison cell.” When Arthur doesn’t immediately reply, he continues on with a wry smile. “You’ll be paid, of course. I recommend a little price-gouging, myself. Uncle Sam can afford it.”

Arthur rocks back in his chair, flexing his toes just to feel the reassuring freedom of movement. He thinks about what Dave is proposing, the true implications of trading one leash for another. If he wants to live—and that’s still a hazy _if_ —it’s obvious that he doesn’t really have a choice, here.

The Mad Scientists have, predictably, reported that Arthur will be cleared to return to duty once his somnacin-blood levels even out. They claim no medical reason why he can’t continue dreamshare long-term. With “proper oversight” in place, of course.

It’s a stay of execution in one sense. And now Dave is offering him another.

But there’s more at stake than just a continued heartbeat. Arthur has been living in dreamshare for so long, it feels like the only way of life he understands anymore. But he stands at the edge of a cliff with one foot hanging over the abyss. Only chance and stubbornness have kept him from falling completely in. Even with Mal’s guidance, he’s not sure how long he can maintain that precarious balance. In short, Arthur is terrified. “This isn’t going to work. How can I go under again?”

Dave levels a steady look at him. “Answer me truthfully—how can you not?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

 

* * *

 

Dave gives him a few days to decide. They both know he’s going to accept the offer, but Dave seems to respect the fact that Arthur needs time to come to terms with his future. It’s a simple kindness, yet Arthur will be eternally grateful for that bit of consideration.

He uses those days to assess his circumstances and come up with a few plans of his own. The situation isn’t ideal, no, but that doesn’t mean he can’t work things to his own benefit.

“Tell them I accept the agency’s offer,” he says to Dave at the end of his grace period, “but I’ve got a couple of conditions. Non-negotiable.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dave’s tone is dry but his eyes gleam with approval. “Let’s hear ‘em.”

“First, I demand the right to refuse.”

“Arth—”

He holds up his hand. “If I don’t take a job, I’ll find a contractor to replace me, with no commission taken. But if I say no, it stands.”

Dave mules that over for a second, eventually nodding. “I can get them to agree to that.”

“Thank you.” Arthur lets out the breath he’d been holding. As long as he has that, he can make this arrangement work. “One more thing.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I want you to arrange a cease and desist on the search for Corporal Emerson.”

It’s a small pleasure to see Dave’s cavalier demeanor crack under that bombshell. “You’re serious.”

Arthur forces his shoulders into a casual shrug. He risks showing his hand with this, and he can only be thankful that he’s dealing with Dave and not Cobb. Cobb would have seen through him in an instant. But he wants this. He’s determined to have this one bright spot for himself. “Emerson’s marks were at the top of his cohort. You want me operational, I’m going to need assets.”

“Yeah, but that one?” Dave grimaces. “Freelance extractors are popping up all over the world. You could have your pick.”

Arthur snorts with all the derision he can muster. Which is actually a fair bit, turns out. “Amateurs,” he drawls, causing Dave to break out in a wide grin.

“Jesus, tell me about it.” He shakes his head, but the smile he gives Arthur softens with acceptance. His relief over Arthur’s agreement is clear. “Fine. I’ll take care of it. But he’ll be _your_ responsibility. Keep him under your thumb. Make sure he behaves himself.”

Arthur arches a nonchalant brow. He slips a hand into his pocket, strokes his finger along the smooth corner of the die. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Arthur burrows deeper into his jacket, shivering despite the bright afternoon sun.

The last leg of his travels completely kicked his ass, thanks largely to the chest infection he picked up somewhere on base while his system has been in the crapper. The fever is back to wrecking his equilibrium and he just barely made it this far under his own steam.

By rights he should be in bed right now, should never have dragged himself onto a plane after hours of driving, and Dave had argued strenuously about Arthur leaving by himself. And may have had a point, too, considering Arthur is struggling just to stay upright. He’ll owe Dave two hundred dollars if he ends up in the ER, though, so that’s one more incentive to keep his shit together.

The primary reason, of course, being this… what he’s about to do.

He didn’t call ahead, had been afraid to ask in case the answer was something he couldn’t bear to hear. Maybe that bridge is already burned, the connection beyond saving. If so, he wouldn’t have anyone to blame but himself. But he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

He knocks a second time. Waits. There’s a building fear as he wonders if anyone is even home. Or, worse, maybe they are there but refuse to answer. He’s just about to panic—the thought of calling a cab and finding a hotel is too much for him to handle at the moment—when the door opens.

“Arthur!” His mother blinks at him in astonishment. “What are you…”

He stares back, overwhelmed by the rush of unfamiliarity. It’s been years—for him, at least—since he last saw his mother. Her hair is longer, skimming her shoulders instead of the stylish bob he remembers, and there’s new age lines beside her eyes that hit him like a punch to the gut. “I didn’t call,” he blurts out, reacting to her shock at his unexpected appearance. But he also thinks about all the other phone calls he didn’t make, the way he gave up on his family without a fight.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and hates himself when his mother begins to cry.

“Nevermind that. Come here.” Her arms go around him, tightening into a fierce hug when he instinctively flinches.

Arthur pulls in a shuddering breath that’s scented with jasmine flowers—the same perfume his mother has worn since he was a child. He squeezes his own teary eyes shut and presses his face against her hair, wanting to saturate himself in the smell of home.

He’s mostly convinced it’s real.

A wave of dizziness strikes, causing him to sag heavily against his mother’s smaller frame and nearly pushing them both off their feet.

“Arthur?” She helps him steady his footing and searches his face with concerned eyes. “Sweetie, are you sick? You’re pale.”

Arthur clutches at her like a child—needy, unsure—and brings her back in for another hug. He’s not ready to stand on his own again. He thinks maybe there’s been too much time on his own, as it is. “Mom... Can I stay here for a few days?”

He feels as much as hears the watery laugh that gets smothered against his shoulder. “Just try and leave. See what happens,” his mother challenges in a rough voice. It makes him smile a little. The King clan has always been territorial of the ones they love.

He drops the last threads of tension and surrenders into the sheltering embrace. “I don’t feel well,” he whispers, and sighs when gentle fingers stroke through his hair.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Arthur closes his eyes. Breathes. And lets himself believe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles come from the song “Out of Sight” by Floater. And, yep, this is also the source of the series name.
> 
> Also, special nod to InkStainedHands1177 for recommending Muse’s “The Handler” for the Psycho Heroes soundtrack.
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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